The Lament

SHORT STORIES

INTRODUCTION

A short story is a brief work of prose fiction. It has a plot

which may be comic, tragic, romantic or satiric; the story
is presented to us from one of the many available points of
view, and it may be written in the mode of fantasy, realism
or naturalism.
In the story of incident the focus of interest is on the course
and outcome of events, as in the Sherlock Holmes story.
The story of character focuses on the state of mind and
motivation, or on the psychological and moral qualities of
the protagonist, as in Glory at Twilight. Chekovs The Lament
focuses on formnothing happens, or seems to happen,
except an encounter and conversations, but the story
becomes a revelation of deep sorrow.
The short story differs from the novel in magnitude. The
limitation of length imposes economy of management and
in literary effects. However, a short story can also attain a
fairly long and complex form, where it approaches the
expansiveness of the novel, which you may find in The
Third and Final Continent in this unit.

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The Lament
Anton Chekhov

Guess the meaning of these expressions from the context

gingerbread horse

slough

snuffle

as if he were on needles

It is twilight. A thick wet snow is slowly twirling around

the newly lighted street lamps and lying in soft thin layers
on roofs, on horses backs, on peoples shoulders and hats.
The cabdriver, Iona Potapov, is quite white and looks like a
phantom: he is bent double as far as a human body can
bend double; he is seated on his box; he never makes a
move. If a whole snowdrift fell on him, it seems as if he
would not find it necessary to shake it off. His little horse
is also quite white, and remains motionless; its immobility,
its angularity and its straight wooden-looking legs, even
close by, give it the appearance of a gingerbread horse
worth a kopek. It is, no doubt, plunged in deep thought. If
you were snatched from the plough, from your usual gray
surroundings, and were thrown into this slough full of
monstrous lights, unceasing noise and hurrying people,
you too would find it difficult not to think.
Iona and his little horse have not moved from their
place for a long while. They left their yard before dinner
and, up to now, not a fare. The evening mist is descending
over the town, the white lights of the lamps are replacing
brighter rays, and the hubbub of the street is getting louder.
Cabby for Viborg Way! suddenly hears Iona. Cabby!
Iona jumps and, through his snow-covered eyelashes,
sees an officer in a greatcoat, with his hood over his head.
Viborg way! the officer repeats. Are you asleep, eh?
Viborg way!

The Lament

With a nod of assent Iona picks up the reins, in

consequence of which layers of snow slip off the horses
back and neck. The officer seats himself in the sleigh, the
cabdriver smacks his lips to encourage his horse, stretches
out his neck like a swan, sits up and, more from habit
than necessity, brandishes his whip. The little horse also
stretches its neck, bends its wooden-looking legs, and
makes a move undecidedly.
What are you doing, werewolf! is the exclamation Iona
hears from the dark mass moving to and fro, as soon as
they have started.
Where the devil are you going? To the r-r-right!
You do not know how to drive. Keep to the right! calls
the officer angrily.
A coachman from a private carriage swears at him; a
passerby, who has run across the road and rubbed his
shoulder against the horses nose, looks at him furiously
as he sweeps the snow from his sleeve. Iona shifts about
on his seat as if he were on needles, moves his elbows as if
he were trying to keep his equilibrium, and gasps about
like someone suffocating, who does not understand why
and wherefore he is there.
What scoundrels they all are! jokes the officer; one
would think they had all entered into an agreement to jostle
you or fall under your horse.
Iona looks around at the officer and moves his lips. He
evidently wants to say something but the only sound that
issues is a snuffle.
What? asks the officer.
Iona twists his mouth into a smile and, with an effort,
says hoarsely:
My son, Barin, died this week.
Hm! What did he die of?
Iona turns with his whole body towards his fare and
says: And who knows! They say high fever. He was three
days in the hospital and then died Gods will be done.
Turn round! The devil! sounds from the darkness.
Have you popped off, old doggie, eh? Use your eyes!
Go on, go on, says the officer, otherwise we shall not
get there by tomorrow. Hurry up a bit!

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The cabdriver again stretches his neck, sits up and,

with a bad grace, brandishes his whip. Several times again
he turns to look at his fare, but the latter has closed his
eyes and, apparently, is not disposed to listen. Having
deposited the officer in the Viborg, he stops by the tavern,
doubles himself up on his seat, and again remains
motionless, while the snow once more begins to cover him
and his horse. An hour, and another Then, along the
footpath, with a squeak of galoshes, and quarrelling, come
three young men, two of them tall and lanky, the third one
short and humpbacked.
Cabby, to the Police Bridge! in a cracked voice calls
the humpback. The three of us for two griveniks.
Iona picks up his reins and smacks his lips. Two
griveniks is not a fair price, but he does not mind whether
it is a rouble or five kopeksto him it is all the same now,
so long as they are fares. The young men, jostling each
other and using bad language, approach the sleigh and all
three at once try to get onto the seat; then begins a
discussion as to which two shall sit and who shall be the
one to stand. After wrangling, abusing each other and much
petulance, it is at last decided that the humpback shall
stand as he is the smallest.
Now then, hurry up! says the humpback in a twanging
voice, as he takes his place and breathes in Ionas neck.
Old furry! Here, mate, what a cap you have! There is not a
worse one to be found in all Petersburg!
He-hehe-he, giggles Iona. Such a
Now you, such a, hurry up, are you going the whole
way at this pace? Are you...Do you want it in the neck?
My head feels like bursting, says one of the lanky
ones. Last night at the Donkmasoves, Vaska and I drank
the whole of four bottles of cognac.
I dont understand what you lie for, says the other
lanky one angrily; you lie like a brute.
God strike me, its the truth!
Its as much the truth as that a louse coughs!
He-he, grins Iona, what gay young gentlemen!
Pshaw, go to the devil! says the humpback indignantly.
Are you going to get on or not, you old pest? Is that the

The Lament

way to drive? Use the whip a bit! Go on, devil, go on, give it
to him well!
Iona feels at his back the little man wriggling, and the
tremble in his voice. He listens to the insults hurled at
him, sees the people, and little by little the feeling of
loneliness leaves him. The humpback goes on swearing
until he gets mixed up in some elaborate six-foot oath, or
chokes with coughing. The lankies begin to talk about a
certain Nadejda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them several
times; he waits for a temporary silence, then, turning round
again, he murmurs:
My son died this week.
We must all die, sighs the humpback, wiping his lips
after an attack of coughing. Now, hurry up, hurry up!
Gentlemen, I really cannot go any farther like this! When
will he get us there?
Well, just you stimulate him a little in the neck!
You old pest, do you hear, Ill bone your neck for you! If
one treated the like of you with ceremony, one would have
to go on foot! Do you hear, old serpent Gorinytch! Or do you
not care a spit!
Iona hears rather than feels the blow they deal him.
He-he he laughs. They are gay young gentlemen, God
blessem!
Cabby, are you married? asks a lanky one.
I? He-he, gay young gentlemen! Now I have only a wife
and the moist groundHe, ho, ho, that is to say, the
grave. My son has died, and I am aliveA wonderful thing,
death mistook the doorinstead of coming to me, it went
to my son
Iona turns round to tell them how his son died but, at
this moment, the humpback, giving a little sigh, announces,
Thank God, we have at last reached our destination, and
Iona watches them disappear through the dark entrance.
Once more he is alone, and again surrounded by silence
His grief, which has abated for a short while, returns and
rends his heart with greater force. With an anxious and
hurried look, he searches among the crowds passing on
either side of the street to find whether there may be just
one person who will listen to him. But the crowds hurry by

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without noticing him or his trouble. Yet it is such an

immense, illimitable, grief. Should his heart break and the
grief pour out, it would flow over the whole earth, so it
seems, and yet no one sees it. It has managed to conceal
itself in such an insignificant shell that no one can see it
even by day and with a light.
Iona sees a hall porter with some sacking and decides
to talk to him.
Friend, what sort of time is it? he asks.
Past nine. What are you standing here for? Move on.
Iona moves on a few steps, doubles himself up, and
abandons himself to his grief. He sees it is useless to turn
to people for help. In less than five minutes he straightens
himself, holds up his head as if he felt some sharp pain,
and gives a tug at the reins; he can bear it no longer. The
stables, he thinks, and the little horse, as if it understood,
starts off at a trot.
About an hour and a half later, Iona is seated by a
large dirty stove. Around the stove, on the floor, on the
benches, people are snoring; the air is thick and
suffocatingly hot. Iona looks at the sleepers, scratches
himself, and regrets having returned so early.
I have not even earned my fodder, he thinks. Thats
whats my trouble. A man who knows his job, who has had
enough to eat and his horse too, can always sleep
peacefully.
A young cabdriver, in one of the corners, half gets up,
grunts sleepily, and stretches towards a bucket of water.
Do you want a drink? Iona asks him.
Dont I want a drink!
Thats so? Your good health. But listen, mateyou
know, my son is deadDid you hear? This week, in the
hospitalIts a long story.
Iona looks to see what effect his words have, but sees
nonethe young man has hidden his face and is fast asleep
again. The old man sighs and scratches his head. Just as
much as the young one wants to drink, the old man wants
to talk. It will soon be a week since his son died, and he
has not been able to speak about it properly to anyone.
One must tell it slowly and carefully; how his son fell ill,

The Lament

how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.

One must describe every detail of the funeral, and the
journey to the hospital to fetch the dead sons clothes. His
daughter, Anissia, has remained in the villageone must
talk about her too. It is nothing he has to tell? Surely the
listener would gasp and sigh, and sympathise with him? It
is better, too, to talk to women; two words are enough to
make them sob.
Ill go and look after my horse, thinks Iona; theres
always time to sleep. No fear of that!
He puts on his coat and goes to the stable to his horse;
he thinks of the corn, the hay, the weather. When he is
alone, he dare not think of his son; he can speak about
him to anyone, but to think of him, and picture him to
himself, is unbearably painful.
Are you tucking in? Iona asks his horse, looking at its
bright eyes: go on, tuck in, though weve not earned our
corn, we can eat hay. Yes I am too old to drivemy son
could have, not I. He was a first-rate cabdriver. If only he
had lived!
Iona is silent for a moment, then continues:
Thats how it is, my old horse. Theres no more Kuzma
Ionitch. He has left us to live, and he went off pop. Now
lets say you had a foal, you were the foals mother and,
suddenly, lets say, that foal went and left you to live after
him. It would be sad, wouldnt it?
The little horse munches, listens and breathes over
its masters hand
Ionas feelings are too much for him and he tells the
little horse the whole story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anton Chekhov (18101904) was born in a
middle-class family in Russia. He studied
medicine at Moscow University. His first
short story appeared in 1880 and, in the
next seven years, he produced more than

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six hundred stories. He also wrote plays Seagull, Uncle

Vanya, The Three Sisters and The Cherry Orchards are among
the more famous ones. His work greatly influenced the
modern short story and drama.
The main theme of Chekovs short stories is lifes pathos,
caused by the inability of human beings to respond to, or
even to communicate with, one another. The present story
illustrates this point beautifully.

UNDERSTANDING THE TEXT

1.

Comment on the indifference that meets Ionas attempts to

share his grief with his fellow human beings.

2.

What impression of the character of Iona do you get from this

story?

3.

How does the horse serve as a true friend and companion to

Iona?

TALKING ABOUT THE TEXT

Discuss the following in pairs
1.

Empathy and understanding are going out of modern society.

The individual experiences intense alienation from the society
around him or her.

2.

Behind the public face of the people in various occupations is a

whole saga of personal suffering and joy which they wish to
share with others.

APPRECIATION
1.

The story begins with a description of the setting. How does this
serve as a fitting prelude to the events described in the story?

2.

Comment on the graphic detail with which the various

passengers who took Ionas cab are described.

3.

This short story revolves around a single important event.

Discuss how the narrative is woven around this central fact.

4.

The story begins and ends with Iona and his horse. Comment
on the significance of this to the plot of the story.

The Lament

LANGUAGE WORK
1.

Look at the following set of words and mention what is common

to them both in form and meaning
snuffle

2.

snort

sniffle

snore

Look at the words given in the box below

snigger

wriggle

sneak

squeak

squawk

titter

pant

chuckle

giggle

jeer

chortle

guffaw

sigh

sidle

boo

shriek

scramble

croak

straggle

plod

gasp

Now classify them according to their closeness in meaning to

the words given below
A
snigger

wriggle

squeak

D
jeer

E
sigh

3.

Explain the associations that the colour white has in the story.

4.

What does the phrase as if he were on needles mean? Can you

think of another phrase with a similar meaning substituting
the word needles?

SUGGESTED READING
1.

What Men Live by by Leo Tolstoy

2.

The Overcoat by N. Gogol.